


the trick of singularity

by QuickYoke



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Anastasia Fusion, Alternate Universe - Princess Diaries Fusion, F/F, Slow Burn, so many allusions to The Tempest and Twelfth Night and Pygmalion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 16:10:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14382234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickYoke/pseuds/QuickYoke
Summary: Nigel hears through the grapevine that the deposed Queen Clarisse is searching for her granddaughter, who was presumed dead during the Genovian Civil War.





	the trick of singularity

_“Put thyself into the trick of singularity”_

_―Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, Scene 2, Act 5_

 

* * *

* * *

_“You’re an idiot...Once for all, understand that I go my way and do my work without caring twopence what happens to either of us. I am not intimidated. So you can come back or go to the devil: which you please.”_

_― George Bernard Shaw, Pygmalion_

* * *

* * *

 

 

The theme for this year’s show was shipwrecks. Blue and green lights streamed in flossy rays across the white-dappled stage. Models were draped in contrasting styles, some sleekly androgynous, others classically feminine. Stark military overcoats with gold epaulettes and braids banding their shoulders, juxtaposed with flowing white gowns that billowed at their feet as they walked. A runway cut through the audience like the prow of an eighteenth century frigate that had run itself ashore. As far as Nigel was concerned, the entire affair was tasteful, with only an edge of extravagance, balanced on the saber’s edge of avant-garde.

Backstage, Nigel stood to one side so as not the get in anyone’s way, only stopping here and there to correct a headpiece or fix an errant sash before people walked onstage. Three models scurried by him towards the entrance of the runway, the hems of their gowns fluttering to reveal scrimshaw inspired stilettos. One of his finer ideas, those. He studied the shoes with a warm glow of pride, but the feeling quickly faded as the models rounded the corner, out of sight. With a resigned sigh, he gestured towards a hairstylist to continue without him and crossed the room, approaching a young woman by the backstage exit.

Emily stood stiffly by the door. As well dressed and rail-thin as any of the models, she nevertheless stood apart in her severe black pantsuit. She’d pulled her bright red hair into a stylish twist, and from beneath a sheen of brightly-painted eyeshadow she watched every member of the room with a critical eye. The moment Nigel began to approach, Emily’s gaze snapped to him. She lifted an eyebrow and tilted her chin up in silent greeting.

“You’re looking very sharp today,” Nigel remarked when he was close enough for them to speak in low tones without being overheard. “Careful, or you might cut the others just by moving.”

“I’m always careful,” she replied in that clipped British accent. She didn’t stop surveying every passer-by, arms crossed, muscles tense. Emily may have every outward appearance of being another air-headed clothes-horse, but Nigel knew from past experience that her outfit hid enough weaponry to set off an airport security terminal just by entering the building.

Clearing his throat, Nigel joined her in watching people pass. He waited until nobody was within discreet distant to ask, “Have you heard back from our ‘friend’ in Paris?”

Emily nodded. “She’s prepared to receive us three days before the Ball, so you’d best be ready by then. Do you and Miranda have a plan for obtaining invitations?”

When Nigel did not immediately answer, she jerked her head around to stare at him. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t hide the guilty expression on his face.

“Oh, you have _got_ to be joking,” Emily breathed with an incredulous little laugh and a shake of her head. “You haven’t told her. Of course, you haven’t told her.”

“I’m working up to it,” he grumbled, delicately adjusting the round glasses atop the bridge of his nose.

“Fantastic. I’ll be sure to put that on your tombstone.”

He scowled, irritated that she could read him so well, and said, “Enough with the sass, or I’ll feed you to one of the models.”

“Better that than Miranda’s wrath,” Emily shot back, turning her attention back to their surroundings.

Nigel latched onto the opportunity to change the topic. “And where is she, anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be keeping tabs on her at all times? Isn’t that your job?”

With a roll of her eyes, Emily pointed to the other side of the room. “She’s making last minute outfit adjustments right around the corner, just outside of make-up.”

“Terrorising some poor soul out of their wits, no doubt,” Nigel sighed.

In reply, Emily shrugged, “Your words, not mine. And I’ll have you know I’ve barred two rather entitled gentlemen from the changing rooms in the last twenty minutes alone.”

“Oh? I trust you went easy on them?”

“Never.”

By that, she meant she’d hauled them bodily from the premises as easily as if taking out a few bags of trash, and probably wearing a similar expression as well. If he hadn’t seen her do it himself on multiple occasions, he might have doubted she was capable of such a feat. Instead he grinned at her, teasing. “I knew I liked you for some reason.”

She sniffed. “I’m a very likable person. Ask anyone.”

With a rueful chuckle, Nigel bumped her shoulder with his own before striding off towards where she had pointed before. He stepped around groups of people milling about, and when he rounded the corner he was very nearly flattened by a harried looking model, who was biting back tears under threat of one of the make-up artists. She didn’t apologise to Nigel as she hurried past him after almosting bowling him over, and he just shook his head.

There Miranda stood, kneeling at the feet of a model, who trembled with terror. Miranda’s brow was puckered, and a pin protruded from between her teeth as she worked the filmy lace on the model’s gown to perfection with a needle. As Nigel approached, the model shot him a pleading look. He merely raised his eyebrows and held up his hands, palms up as if in surrender. The model’s lower lip trembled, but she did not move beneath the surgical precision of Miranda’s work. Head bowed, a silvery forelock fell into Miranda’s eye over the top of her square-faced spectacles; she did not seem to notice Nigel’s presence, though he knew she was aware of everything around her, even if she did not show it. With her, it always paid to assume she knew more than she let on; most times, after all, it was true.

When Nigel cleared his throat to announce himself, Miranda paid him no heed. Nevertheless, he circled the model and admired her handiwork. “At least the theme this year is appropriate,” Nigel said, crossing his arms as he came to stand beside Miranda. “It matches the smell of fear and panic in the air.”

Not looking up at him, Miranda merely grunted around the pin in her mouth. She fished it out and carefully tucked it into the material gathered in her hands. “Art imitates life, or some such nonsense,” she mumbled, transfixed by the seafoam lace beneath her hands.

“Never took you for an Oscar Wilde fan. Unless you have a portrait in your attic I should be aware of?” Nigel quipped. The model gave him a wide-eyed look, as if fearing for his sanity.

Finally Miranda looked at him, only to glare briefly before turning her attention back to the model. “If you’re not going to help, then go be useless somewhere else, Nigel. Better yet, remind me what I pay you, so I can dock it.”

“I am helping. She looks fine, by the way.” Nigel insisted in his most quelling, most helpful tone of voice, the one that never failed to distract Miranda from a snit-fit. “You’re doing it again.”

Miranda’s brows drew down more sharply, and she gave the fabric a vicious tug until it draped exactly the way she wanted. “I am not _‘doing it.’”_

“You are. And I know you are, because you do it every show.”

As if just to spite him, Miranda pulled another pin from the cushion tied around one of her wrists, and adjusting the gown one last fraction before pushing herself upright and sending the model off with a sharp, “Go.”

Relieved, the model scampered to freedom. Nigel did have to admit: the dress now looked perfect. Miranda saw him admiring her handiwork with a victorious expression on her face. She added a sneer for good measure. “I’ve stopped fretting, haven’t I?”

“For now.” Nigel tapped at the face of his wristwatch. “We’ll see. I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t come backstage during events starting this year? Half the reason why people come to these shows is to see you, not the models.”

Miranda gave a haughty sniff. “We didn’t agree on anything. You spoke, and I ignored you.”

“Yes, that sounds about right.”

Despite their verbal blows -- parry and riposte -- they fell into a comfortable silence, enshrouded in a bubble of backstage chaos. Waves of people bustled by: stage managers and technicians, wardrobe assistants and make-up artists. All the while, Miranda stabbed the small cushion at her wrist with one of its pins, over and over. Her eyes were narrowed, her lips pursed, and her shoulders tense, as though she would leap into movement at a moment’s notice. Stillness did not become her, especially not here and now, encompassed by the tumult of her work in action like some magister amidst a conjured storm.

After a moment, Miranda announced, “It’s a disaster.”

Nigel nodded. “Yes, but it’s a spectacular disaster. Again: thematically appropriate.”

“Well,” Miranda drawled, stabbing the pin into its cushion and leaving it there. “Now, I can rest easy.”

“Relax. Everything’s going smoothly. I’ve only seen three people cry today. That’s a seventy percent improvement from last year,” Nigel said. When Miranda shot him a curious frown, he explained, “The last thirty percent was Emily fixing her contact lens this morning. Doesn’t count.”

Another two models emerged from make-up. Upon seeing Nigel and Miranda standing right there, the models tried to make themselves look very small and inconspicuous as they slipped by in the hope that they could avoid Miranda’s knife-edged scrutiny. Miranda toyed with the measuring tape draped like a shawl around her neck in an absent-minded way as she watched them pass. Then she sighed, “Sometimes I can’t believe I talk about this -” she waved a hand in the air at her surroundings, “-all day. Playing dress up for the hoi polloi. It’s embarrassing.”

Nigel hummed a note in agreement. “Could be worse,” he said. “Could be shot dead back in Genovia.”

“Thank God for small favours, I suppose.” All of a sudden, her expression sharpened. She zeroed in on a model going from hair to make-up, and snatched the girl’s arm. “Come here,” Miranda growled. “Who on earth put this on you? They should be drawn and quartered.”

“Jo-Jocelyn,” the girl squeaked, going stock-still as Miranda began to comb over the outfit with her eyes.

“Nigel, go fire Jocelyn,” Miranda snapped.

Nigel didn’t move. “Just last week you were talking about giving Jocelyn a promotion,” he reminded her.

“And right now I’m talking about firing her. I swear, every time I think I’ve seen it all, someone manages to plumb new depths of incompetence,” she muttered to herself, yanking the model around by the shoulder. “I used to dress sovereigns, and now I’m supposed to be content with walking mannequins.”

Nigel had to fight the urge to roll his eyes, knowing that would only make things worse. “Yes, I can see that you’re just wasting away from lack. Life must be so difficult, when every major fashion designer in the world is clamouring for your approval.”

Miranda glowered at him over the top of her square, rimless glasses.

Anyone else would have quailed, but Nigel blinked back at her innocently. With a wordless growl, Miranda went back to her work. She gathered together pleats of the fabric between her hands at the small of the model’s back.

“I’ve had my ear to the ground -” Nigel began, his voice soft so as not to carry beyond them.

“I believe it’s Emily’s job to keep a watch out for would-be assassins and the like,” was Miranda’s dry retort. “Unless you’d like to duel her for the role? Pistols at dawn, perhaps?”

“No, thank you,” Nigel demurred.

“Shame.” Miranda’s lips quirked into a malicious smile as she worked at the gown. “I would’ve loved to see it.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Nigel said in a bland tone. He shot a furtive glance towards the model, but the girl’s eyes darted about like a prey animal in the clutches of a lion, seeking a quick escape. Hardly the potential eavesdropper. Nevertheless he lowered his voice. “Recently, I’ve gotten wind that Clarisse Renaldi, Queen Mother of Genovia, has been accosted by actors attempting to fob off young girls as her long lost granddaughter. You know -- the presumed dead Princess Amelia? Clarisse has been led to believe she may very well be alive.”

“Clarisse is still clinging to her old titles, I see. Much good it will do her,” Miranda grumbled under her breath as she pinned the fabric more snugly in place around the model’s narrow waist.

Nigel’s eyebrows rose. “That’s all you’re taking from this?”

“What else am I supposed to take from it?” Miranda snapped her fingers at the model and made a twirling motion with her hand. The model -- looking close to tears and ready to tip Nigel’s statistics into the red -- turned slowly in place until Miranda grabbed her by the hip to hold her still with a grip hard and dispassionate as her gaze. Miranda pulled up the skirt to cluck her tongue at a crooked line on the hem. “I’m not going crawling back to work for deposed monarchs, Nigel. I learned my lesson last time.”

Gathering his courage in both hands, Nigel pressed, “You said it yourself: you used to dress sovereigns. Don’t you want to do that again?”

At that, Miranda paused in her fussing over the fabric. It was such a small hesitation -- a momentary freeze and tension of muscle -- that Nigel almost missed it. Then, she continued her work, but more slowly this time. Her face gave away nothing. “What I want -” she said in a low voice, picking at the hem with a needle, “What I _want_ is to have a show run smoothly for once. Is that so impossible a task? Am I reaching for the stars here?”

Dropping the hem, Miranda waved the model away with a bored gesture, and immediately the model scuttled off to get her make-up finished. Nigel cleared his throat and cast a discreet glance around before taking a step closer to her. “Listen,” he said, trying and failing to catch Miranda’s eye; she was toying with the measuring tape hanging around her neck again, and refusing to look anywhere at him. “What if I told you we could get it all back?”

Miranda darted a scathing glance in his direction, then continued to peruse the room for another victim to menace. The passing models lowered their eyes and scurried past the two of them, failing to dodge her unflagging inspection.

“I’d say you were mad,” Miranda finally answered, when she was sure nobody was within earshot. “And then I’d remind you that life has neither the time nor patience for fairy-tales.”

With a shrug, Nigel primly adjusted his glasses. “I don’t remember many fairy-tales involving a counter-putsch to overthrow an illegitimate king, but maybe I need to brush up on my Hans Christian Andersen.”

That got Miranda’s attention. She froze. Behind her square-faced spectacles her eyes went wide, and she stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“I had Emily contact Clarisse’s household. You remember Serena, don't you?” Nigel started.

“Please don’t say what I think you’re going to say,” Miranda groaned. She lifted a martyred hand to cover her eyes and shake her head.

“We contacted Serena,” Nigel repeated, more firmly this time, though his words had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “And told her we found Clarisse’s granddaugher.”

Stunned silence. And then -

“You did _what?”_ Miranda hissed, lowering her hand.

Ignoring her death-glare, Nigel forged on. He never had been one for self-preservation, else he would have left Miranda’s employ years ago. “We have just over ten months to find a suitable girl and pass her off as the rightful Heir to Genovia at the Grand Parisian Ball.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Miranda stepped forward, and though she was not a tall woman, she seemed to fill the space around her with her very presence. The effect was ruined somewhat by the nervous flickering of her eyes to check if anyone were eavesdropping on their conversation.

“We can do this. I know we can do this. We’ll be in Paris anyway for Fashion Week. Clarisse is not without her allies, and you -- you know people! You were once a Great Officer of a royal house!”

“A Domicile Officer!” Miranda said through grit teeth. She looked to be about two seconds away from strangling him with the measuring tape right then and there. “As in ‘Domestic.’ _‘Household.’_ For God’s sake, Nigel -!”

He refused to back down. “Just last week, I saw you rubbing elbows with the Général of the French Foreign Legion in Milan,” he pointed out. “And three weeks before that, you chatted up the Marshal of the Royal Air Force at that charity ball in London. And who knows? Maybe Clarisse is right. Princess Amelia could very well still be alive, and -!”

Miranda’s gaze flashed behind her glasses, and her expression turned icy enough to make Nigel swallow whatever else he had been about to say. She drew close enough that he could see beneath layers of careful concealer the faint hint of the scar that reached from her upper lip to her cheek, evidence of her escape from Genovia -- a tale he had never had enough courage to question her about. He had to tamp down the sudden thrill of fear coiling its way up his spine, but it wasn’t enough to keep him from leaning away from the murder in her eyes.

“That girl is dead,” Miranda said in her most dangerous whisper. “She is dead, and now you’ve gone and put idle fantasies in the ear of a grieving old woman. Dwell on that, why don’t you?” Stepping back, Miranda turned away. Her hands trembled somewhat after gripping them into fists so tightly, and she unclenched them, smoothing her palms down the front of her hand-tailored waistcoat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, some of us have actual work to do.”

She stalked away, and he watched her go. He sucked at the backs of his teeth, then clicked his tongue and said, _“Shit.”_

 

* * *

 

The show was met with applause and a standing ovation. Miranda went out on stage to take a bow on the runway like a figurehead carved from ice at the forepeak of the ruined ship. She plastered on a smile when someone presented her with a bouquet of flowers. The moment she was backstage once more, she thrust them into the nearest stage personnel’s arms as though the flowers were a bundle of plague-bearing rats. Nigel tried to catch her eye, hoping to corner her before the reception party, but Miranda breezed right by him.

Emily was holding out Miranda’s coat, which Miranda snatched from her hands as she strode through the exit. Rather than immediately follow, Emily shook her head at Nigel from across the room in a silent, grinning rebuke.

“Emily,” Miranda snapped through the door, and Emily turned to shadow her footsteps.

“What the hell do I do with these?” the stage hand asked, flummoxed with his arms full of flowers.

Nigel spared him a glance. “Surprise your girlfriend.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” the stage hand said.

“Then put them on my grave,” Nigel sighed. Not waiting for the stage hand’s reaction, Nigel left.

The event planners had done up Pier 94 beyond all recognition. Even so, no amount of extravagant decorations could distract Nigel from what was swiftly becoming a truly terrible evening. He ducked in through a side door and entered via the kitchens rather than be assaulted by all the photographers welcoming people at the front entrance. The high ceiling was strung with canvas sails, and every ornamentation had been staged so that the function hall resembled the deck of a ship, including wait-staff dressed like naval officers.

The night was young and already the hall was crowded with people. Nigel grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing server’s tray, and tucked himself into a corner. Still, a few keen-eyed groups sought him out to heap praises upon his and Miranda’s show, to gossip, and to ply him for any information about Miranda’s upcoming work. As gamely as he could, Nigel smiled and entertained, but nobody flocked to him for long. Not with Miranda holding court near the polished wooden ship’s wheel near the back of the hall.

Normally he would be right there beside her, while Emily would hover at Miranda’s elbow, occasionally leaning forward to whisper some tidbit of information into Miranda’s ear. Tonight however, Emily stood alone at Miranda’s side. Her red hair caught the light as she tilted her head for Nigel to join them, but Nigel just shook his head and stayed right where he was. He liked his head firmly attached to his shoulders, thank you very much.

After what felt like an age and what Nigel knew -- after numerous glances at his designer wristwatch -- was a mere forty minutes, Miranda glided from the room, as _de rigeur_ as always with her timing at these events. He drained his third glass of champagne of the night with an exhale of relief. Then, he set the fluted glass on a nearby surface, made his excuses to the latest group that had cornered him, and slipped off towards the exit.

A shit night, but at least it was over now.

Nigel didn’t even make it to the foyer, before Emily found him. Darting a quick glance about for Miranda -- usually Emily shadowed her like a hawk -- Nigel breathed a sigh when Miranda was nowhere to be found. Before he could even open his mouth to speak however, Emily beat him to the punch line.

“Feathers are so passé,” she said, and gestured towards his pristine three-piece suit. “Though I must say, they suit you perfectly.”

Nigel’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Feathers?”

In answer, Emily pretended to cluck at him like a chicken.

He scowled. “Funny,” he grumbled. “And I’m not!”

_“Bwak bwak bwak.”_

“Keep it up, and I’ll go into the office fridge and switch out your skimmed milk for full cream,” he threatened.

Very abruptly she stopped, but not because of him. Miranda swept over, and immediately both of them straightened, snapping to attention. Apparently she hadn’t left yet, only stopped by the coat room, if the militant fur-trimmed jacket hanging around her shoulders was any indication. Fixing her gloves in place, one of Miranda’s eyebrows quirked as she studied them in turn. She let them twist on the breeze for a suitable length of time, until Nigel swore he could feel a bead of sweat tracing down his spine.

Finally, Miranda turned to Emily and said, “Emily, I need you to approach the agencies tomorrow and arrange for a new casting call, but be discreet. If we’re going to engage in this -” she gave a particularly vicious yank on the glove at the base of her wrist “- _utterly ridiculous_ farce, then we’ll need a suitable girl for the job.”

Nigel exchanged a look of shock with Emily, before he turned to Miranda and said, “You mean -? For the Princess Amel-?”

Miranda shot him a glare of pure poison. “Yes,” she said. “And I hope for your sake, you’re prepared to create a masterpiece that will fool even me.”

Nigel schooled his features so that he could only be described as sombre. “Of course, Miranda.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, then snapped, “Don't look so smug. I'm only doing this to get back at that snake, Irv.”

“How noble of you,” Nigel murmured.

“Oh, be quiet.”

 

* * *

 

Andy left her umbrella at home that morning. When she’d glanced out the window while getting dressed, the sky had been dim with cloud but not with rain. In the time it took for her to travel across the city, the storm had settled over New York, and Andy stepped from the dirty but definitely dry safety of the subway into a full-blown downpour.

Swearing under her breath, she pulled up the collar of her coat. Much good that did her. Andy trudged along the street, bumping shoulders with others in the crowd as they all kept their heads down and their backs stooped against the pelt of rain. At one point, a gust of wind roared down the street so violently, a woman a little ways up had the umbrella torn right from her hands. Andy tried comforting herself with the notion that even if she was miserable and soaked through three layers, at least her umbrella was safely tucked next to her front door and not tumbling headlong into traffic, causing a screeching of tires from no less than two taxis.

A building of steel and glass loomed overhead. Andy groped in her pocket for her cellphone to check that this was indeed the right place. The screen was immediately spotted with drops of water, and she quickly put it away again. Just as she was pushing through the revolving doors, lightning lanced overhead, followed by a crack of thunder.

The foyer was all but empty, and Andy dripped onto the marble floor. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in a polished pillar, and grimaced at herself. On a good day, she managed to give her hair a decent brush and blow-dry, but today she looked like she’d been fished from the sea.

“Christ,” she muttered, dragging a hand through her sopping wet hair so that it at least didn’t stick to her face so much.

A television played over security’s desk, and an anchorman was gesturing to the freak storm that descended from the north, decrying it as ‘a mystery.’ Both security guards were peering up at the screen, sipping at their paper cups filled with coffee. When Andy approached, one of them looked over. “You look like shit, honey.”

“Yeah, I know,” Andy sighed. She dug through her leather briefcase for her driver’s license, and handed it over. “I’m here for the -?”

The security guard waved her along after a quick glance at her ID. “Elevators are over there. Take them down to the third-floor basement.”

“The - The basement?” Andy repeated, but the security guard had already turned back to the television. “Great,” Andy grumbled, turning to go where indicated. “Thanks so much.”

She pushed at the waist-high security gate, and at first it didn’t open. When she tried again however, the little light on the gate went green and she walked right through. In the elevator ride down, Andy fussed over her appearance in the mirrored panels along the walls, until with a chime the doors slid open. Hesitant, she stepped out and glanced down either end of the hallway.

Fluorescent lights lined the low ceiling. One of them flickered intermittently with a soft buzzing noise. It felt like a scene from a bad thriller movie. Lifting her chin, Andy tamped down her nerves, shifted her grip on her briefcase, straightened her shoulders, and strode down the hallway. At every doorway, she would slow her steps to peer inside, but they were all dark. Finally, at the last door, she saw lights in the room beyond, and pushed her way inside.

The room was small and cramped. Boxes lined the walls. Another closed door sat directly opposite the entrance, and to one side a woman stood beside a table, tapping away at her phone. Her vibrant red hair was pinned up into an elegant twist at the back of her head, and her clothes were nothing but black on black. Daring and chic, and monochromatic. She looked up when Andy entered the room, and raised an eyebrow at Andy’s appearance.

“The agency sure does have a sense of humour,” the woman said by way of greeting. That clipped British accent coupled with those clothes and the freak storm, and all Andy could think of was that she must have been Mary Poppins’ evil goth cousin.

Refusing to be intimidated, Andy stepped forward and stuck out her hand. “Hi. I’m Andrea Sachs, but everyone calls me Andy.”

“Mmm-hmm.” She continued tapping away at her phone for a moment, before setting it down on the desk. “Emily Charlton. Not that you’ll need to remember it, trust me.”

Andy lowered her hand. “OK,” she said slowly, drawing out each syllable. She cleared her throat and looked around. “Is this Elias Cla-? I mean, I’m here for the interview? Is that with you, or -?”

Emily gave an incredulous snort. “God, no. You’ll be seeing Miranda and Nigel in the next room. Good luck with that, by the way.” Her words were somewhat encouraging, but the way she said it made it sound like she was telling Andy to break a literal leg.

“Thanks, I guess. Uhm -? Who are Miranda and Nigel?”

Emily shot her a scathing look. “I’m going to pretend you did not just ask that.”

“Right. That’s helpful of you.” Andy pointed towards the door across from her and took a step towards it. “So, I’m going through there-?”

Before Andy could even complete her stride, Emily moved. One second she was lounging with crossed arms by the table, and the next she was standing between Andy and the door with a dangerous glint in her blue eyes. Nobody should have been able to move that quickly in heels, but somehow Emily accomplished it with ease. Andy stumbled back, and Emily watched every movement with a deadly poise. “I’ll need to check your belongings first, of course.”

“Woah, ok,” Andy said. She held up one hand as if in surrender. “You guys have pretty strict company policies, huh?”

“Bag,” Emily demanded, pointing to the table.

Tentative, Andy crossed the room and placed her hand-me-down briefcase onto the table. Emily joined her, turning the bag over in her hands. Her nose wrinkled as she clicked open the latch and poked around inside. After a very thorough search, she announced, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave this with me.”

“But there’s nothing dangerous in there,” Andy said, starting to reach out and take it.

Emily snatched the briefcase away, only to toss it beneath the table, where it clunked heavily to the floor. “It’s an assault on the senses. Now, go.” She snapped her fingers once as she pointed towards the door to Andy’s left. “They’re waiting for you.”

The moment Andy tugged at the door handle, Emily was already back at her phone again, ignoring Andy’s existence entirely. The door opened to a shadowed hallway that led to a room beyond. For a moment, Andy briefly considered turning back. No job interview, however coveted, could be worth whatever the hell this was. Then, the door swung shut behind her with a clang, and Andy squeaked in surprise. She steadied herself with a deep breath before walking down the hallway. She wished she had her briefcase to fiddle with, and had to stifle the urge to fiddle with the ring chained around her neck and hidden beneath her collared shirt. Instead, she unbuttoned her coat in the hopes that it would make her appear somewhat presentable, and less like a dead rat her cat had found in the gutter.

The room was low-ceilinged, and broad, and empty but for two chairs, a coffee table, and a raised platform like a would-be stage or perhaps a hired dancefloor. The coffee table was crowded with loose pages, and files, and a forest of empty Starbucks cups. A bright light shone on the platform, as if waiting for a performer’s dramatic entrance. Two people -- a man and a woman -- stood on the the platform with their backs to her. They argued in soft tones, while Andy glanced around the room in confusion.

“Remind me never to listen to you again,” the woman was saying, her voice hushed yet sharp all at once. She balanced an open folder between her hands. “All your ideas end up in catastrophe. Why did I hire you?”

“Because I'm second only to you at this job, and you know it,” the man answered.

“And don't you forget it,” she growled in a menacing tone, though apparently it was a good-natured kind of growl because the man only seemed amused. “Did you see that last one? She must have been my age.”

“Now, be fair, Miranda. I'm sure she was nowhere near that ancient,” he quipped in reply. She pinched his arm. “Ow!”

Andy cleared her throat to announce her presence, and immediately they turned to face her. She tried not to quail beneath the combined intensity of their gazes, but she could feel her usually sunny smile begin to flag. “Hi!” Andy gave a little wave of one hand as she moved forward. “You must be Miranda and Nigel?”

They stared at her. Just like Emily, they were both impeccably dressed, and more than ever Andy felt completely out of her depth.

Nigel reached up to adjust his round-faced spectacles. The movement sent a glare of light glancing across the lenses, even more blinding than the shine from his bald head. “Who are you?”

“Oh! I’m Andrea Sachs.” Andy took a few more steps into the room, but paused near the chairs. Somehow the way the woman was looking at her made Andy hesitate. Like she looked at Andy and could see right through her, past any guise. “But - uh -” Andy tried her very best not to wring her hands nervously. “But everyone calls me Andy.”

“Are you lost?” Nigel asked, and unlike his colleague, his own face and voice remained completely neutral.

“I don’t think so?” Andy gestured between the two of them, and then to the table and chairs. “I - uh - I’m here for the assistant’s interview? This is Elias-Clarke, right?”

In answer, the woman -- Miranda -- sneered. It was a really impressive sneer, like she did it often. Andy had to swallow past an inexplicable dryness in her throat.

“Right,” Andy croaked. Just then she realised she had left her CV with her briefcase, and she cast a desperate look over her shoulder towards the exit, before steeling herself and facing the stage. “Well, I just recently graduated from Northwestern University, where I majored in -”

As Andy spoke, Miranda rolled her eyes. She made to shut the folder in her hands, glanced down, then did a double-take. Her brow furrowed, and she squinted at Andy before fishing for the glasses perched atop her head and placing them on the bridge of her nose. Andy continued to speak about her accomplishments at university, about the newspaper she’d led, about what drove her to pursue a job in New York, but she stumbled over the words when Miranda aimed a piercing stare at her.  

“Nigel, look at this,” Miranda murmured. She tipped the folder in her hands towards him, all while never blinking as she stared at Andy.

“Hmm?” He cocked his head at the folder’s contents, and his eyebrows rose. “Oh!” Glancing up at Andy then back down, he said, “Oh, yes, I see it now. How remarkable.”

“And really I was hoping to - to - uhm,” Andy trailed off, ending lamely, “-be a journalist?”

Miranda removed a slip of paper from the folder, then snapped the folder shut and handed it to Nigel, who took it without complaint. As Miranda moved forward, Andy had to stifle the urge to retreat, stopping herself after only a half step back. When she was within arm's reach, Miranda drew to a halt, the slip of paper in one hand, the other hand at her chin, where she tapped her bottom lip in quiet contemplation. Her pale gaze swept Andy from head to foot, and after a long moment she pointed at Andy and said, “Turn.”

Andy blinked. “S-Sorry?”

Rather than repeat herself, Miranda rolled her eyes and snapped her fingers, making an impatient twirling motion with her hand. Feeling incredibly foolish and wondering why on earth she was even complying with this, Andy turned on the spot. By the time she was facing Miranda again, Miranda had moved forward another few steps until she was near enough to touch.

“Hmm,” was all Miranda said, pursing her lips. As she took off her glasses, a silvery lock of hair fell bewitchingly in her eyes. She brushed it back, and tapped her folded glasses against her cheek. “Could be worse,” Miranda finally announced, circling around Andy to address Nigel over Andy’s shoulder. “Though not much.”

Feeling like a carcass being circled by a vulture, Andy frowned and turned to keep facing Miranda. “What are you -?”

“You came to New York to be a journalist?” Miranda asked without preamble. So, she had been listening after all.

“Y-Yes.”

Miranda continued to circle. “Where are you from?”

“Ohio,” Andy answered. She turned as well, never allowing Miranda to fully get behind her. It felt too much like turning her back on a panther that had escaped its zoo enclosure. Realising what she’d said, Andy corrected herself, “Well, actually, Europe originally. I was adopted when I was a kid, after my family died in a civil war or something. I don’t remember that time of my life. So, yeah. Ohio. Could you stop that?”

At that, Miranda’s eyebrows rose and she stopped circling. “An orphan with no memory of her past? How convenient.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Andy blinked. She’d heard a lot of reactions to her unorthodox childhood before, but this was new.

Miranda ignored her. “And when you say ‘Europe’, you wouldn’t happen to mean Genovia, would it?”

“I -” Andy tried to speak, but found that all the breath had left her body. She stared at Miranda in outright shock. Finally, she said, “Yes. Yes, it was. How did you -?”

Now, Miranda almost appeared amused, though a coldness lingered in her eyes. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

“Should I?” Andy was seriously beginning to wonder the answer to that question herself.

For a moment, Miranda held her gaze. Then, the amusement faded, replaced once more with a brook-no-nonsense expression. She placed her glasses on the nearby table, and showed Andy the paper in her hand, revealing that it was, in fact, a picture. “Do you recognise this?”

It was a black and white photo. Glossy. Tastefully posed. And in it, a familiar face: a head of dark hair framing large dark eyes.

Andy snorted. “Is this -?” Her face spread in a grin before she could stop herself. “Is this some kind of joke?”

When Miranda merely lifted an eyebrow and did not answer, Andy pointed at the photo. “Did my friends give you that? Are they here now? Real funny, guys!” Andy said to the room at large. “Your prank sucks, by the way!”

Nigel was watching them from the side, while the corner of Miranda’s lip had curled. “I’m not known for my rollicking sense of humour,” Miranda said, flinty.

“Oh, I believe you, lady. I do.” Andy said, digging through her jacket pocket and pulling out her phone. She swiped her password across the screen and opened an app. “But that still doesn't explain how you got one of my childhood pictures. Although,” she added, frowning at the photo over her phone. “You know what? I don't remember my mom ever dressing me in so many frills.”

Then, Andy held her phone out for Miranda to see. It was a picture Andy's mom had posted to social media ages ago, depicting a young Andy -- perhaps eight or nine years old -- dressed like a little pirate. Black hat with skull and crossbones and all.

“See?” Andy said.

Miranda studied Andy's phone for a moment before looking up at her once more. She gestured over her shoulder, “Nigel?”

Still holding the folder Miranda had given him. Nigel crossed the room to join them. He adjusted his glasses, and his hand glinted with bulky yet stylish rings. He looked from the photo in Miranda's hands to the phone in Andy's and back again. “I'm certainly convinced,” he said.

“Well.” Miranda flicked the photo between her fingers, and her expression could only be described as smug. “That's that, then.”

“It sure is,” Nigel murmured, rubbing his jaw and studying the pirate photo before Andy pocketed her phone again.

“Can we just -” Andy raked a hand through her still wet hair, “-start over from the beginning? Please? Here, I’ll go first. Hi! I’m Andy Sachs! It’s been so nice to meet you! I just love being insulted by strangers!” She knew she sounded petulant, but could do nothing to stop it. “Now, your turn.”

Miranda tongued the inside of her cheek in a thoughtful way that also made it look like she was trying to hide a smirk. She toyed with the photograph as she considered Andy. Then, breathing in sharply, all business once more, she began to speak. “Seventeen years ago, Crown Prince Philippe Renaldi died in a boating accident in the Tyrrhenian Sea, leaving Genovia in the hands of the Queen Mother and his only daughter, the young Princess Amelia Renaldi. You can have this by the way. I have others.” Miranda held out the picture, and Andy took it reflexively. “Where was I?”

“The boating accident,” Nigel said from the side.

“Yes, of course.” Turning, Miranda walked to the nearby table. There, she picked up various Starbucks mugs, testing their weight to find one that still held coffee. “Clarisse -- the Queen Mother -- had no right to the throne herself, being married to the previous King, and not being Queen Regnant in her own right. And with the Princess only -? Seven years old, was it, Nigel?”

He nodded.

“Seven years old, and a claimant in name alone. What a pair they made.” Miranda paused for a second as she found a Starbucks mug with actual coffee in it. She took a sip, then grimaced, placing it back down on the table. “Ugh. _Cold._ In any case, it was the perfect recipe for a coup, if ever I’ve seen one. And a coup there was. I mentioned the Renaldi line was deposed, didn’t I?”

“You did not,” Nigel confirmed.

Miranda waved that little detail away with a bored flourish of her fingers. “Well, they were deposed. And by that I mean, the palace was stormed and most of them were killed. Along with others.”

Andy’s mouth was dry. She had to swallow a few times in order to speak. “Why -?” Her voice still rasped. “Why are you telling me this?”

Miranda arched an eyebrow at her. “You told me to start from the beginning.”

“Yeah, but -?”

“I thought you were supposed to be smart,” Miranda interrupted in her meanest tone yet. “Just earlier you were bragging about your academic accomplishments. Or was that all a ruse as well?”

Gritting her teeth, Andy fought back the boiling of anger in her stomach. “When I said ‘the beginning’ I didn’t expect you to bust out a powerpoint on the history of a small European country!”

“Then you should have been more specific,” Miranda said. “And it’s a _principality_ , if we’re going to split hairs.” She rapped her fingers against the table, over and over, the even clack of her nails against wood. When Andy opened her mouth to snap back a reply, Miranda pointed at the photo in Andy’s hand. “That is a copy of the last known photograph ever taken of the Princess, before she disappeared during the coup that overthrew her family and tore her homeland apart.”

For a long moment, Andy just stared between Miranda and Nigel in absolute puzzlement. And then she stared down at the picture in her hand, at the young girl dressed in silver-screen frills, at herself, and finally it all crashed into place.

“Oh, no no no no,” Andy chuckled. She shook her head and waved the photograph. “You’ve got it all wrong. I’m just a - a nobody. An adopted orphan from Ohio, whose only expectation in life is to be a journalist. You’ve got the wrong girl.”

“Believe me, I wish it were otherwise,” Miranda gave Andy’s clothes another blistering glance. “But you are the rightful Heir of Genovia. And now we have to tackle the insurmountable challenge of making you look and act the part. She’ll have to work on her elocution as well,” Miranda added to Nigel, who was nodding.

“History, political science, etiquette, foreign affairs,” Nigel listed off. “A little crisco and some fishing line, and she’ll be ready to meet Queen Clarisse in no time.”

“This is a joke,” Andy muttered under her breath, staring at the photo again. “This is just a - a -”

“Nigel, have you ever known me to be a funny person?” Miranda asked in a dry tone.

“You were born for stand up,” he said. He ignored Miranda’s level look, and turned his attention to Andy. “We’ve been looking for possible candidates for Princess Amelia for more than a week now. We’ve seen hundreds of girls, and trust me: you’re bona fide.”

Andy’s head swam. “You people are crazy. There’s no way I’m -” She couldn’t even bring herself to finish the sentence, as if saying it aloud would hew it in stone, make it solid, real and irrevocable. As she spoke, her voice grew faint, tinged with uncertainty.

Unlike Miranda, who was impatiently tapping her fingernails against the table again, Nigel watched Andy with an almost sympathetic expression on his face. “Did you and your adoptive parents never look into your background?”

“We did,” Andy heard herself answer as if from very far away. “But there was nothing to be found. I was - I was picked up, unconscious, at a train station near the coast, and taken to a hospital, and -”

Neither Nigel nor Miranda said anything. The words died at the back of Andy’s throat. She stared at the picture. Her hands trembled. Shaking her head, she took a step back. “No,” Andy said, repeating more firmly. “No. You’re wrong. You’re crazy. I’m not a -! And, you know what? I don’t want to be a -! No. Nope!”

While she spoke, she continued to retreat from Miranda and Nigel, until she simply turned and fled. She didn’t stop in the next room, and she didn’t look back.

 

* * *

 

Miranda and Nigel blinked at the spot where Andy had stood just a moment before.

“Well,” Miranda said dryly. “That went swimmingly.”

When she gave Nigel a pointed look, he sighed and started towards the door in pursuit. “I’ll handle it.”

Already, Miranda was picking through the files at the table, pretending to be bored and ignore his very existence. “Yes, you will. Oh, and Nigel?”

“Hmm?” He stopped with one hand perched on the door, and glanced over his shoulder down the darkened hallway.

Not looking over at him, Miranda picked up one of the Starbucks mugs and waggled it on one hand. “Have Emily fetch some more coffee, while you’re at it.”

With a nod and a resigned sigh, Nigel pushed the door open and slipped out. In the next room, Emily was sitting atop the table, touching up her lipstick in a compact mirror.

Nigel approached. “Miranda wants another coffee. And that girl who just left? We need to find her. She’s the one.”

Tilting her head, Emily snapped the mirror shut, capped her lipstick, and tucked both away into a calf leather Prada clutch. “I’ll order another Starbucks.” She pulled out her phone, and asked without looking at Nigel, “Seriously? That sad little person?”

“Unfortunately, yes. God help us all,” Nigel muttered. “Do we have any leads on where she went?”

“Not a clue. Though, she left her foul bag here,” Emily said, reaching under the table with her foot and kicking said briefcase across the floor with one elegantly shod toe.

Reaching down, Nigel picked it up and began sifting through its contents for clues. “Anything else?”

“Give me a second. I’m finishing up the coffee order.”

He scowled over the briefcase. “This takes a little more priority than Starbucks.”

Emily raised her eyebrows. “In that case, you can be the one to go back in there without Miranda’s coffee.”

Nigel glanced over his shoulder towards the door. “You’ve made your point.”

Emily swiped at her phone, and proceeded to key in a complex combination of letters and numbers that seemed to go on for a nautical mile. Just as Nigel was pulling out what looked like a CV, Emily turned her phone around to show him the screen. “She’s on the Eighth Avenue Express, heading south-east towards Brooklyn.”

His eyes widened. In just a few moments, Emily had hooked into the city’s surveillance network. With a gesture of her finger, she picked a different camera, pointing at the unmistakable figure of Andy Sachs pushing through the crowded subway turnstiles.

Nigel placed the briefcase back on the ground, still holding onto Andy’s wrinkled CV. “That confirms the address here, then. Can you hack into this building’s security, too?”

“Of course. Why? Do you need me to?”

“No, I was just wondering. You’re a little scary. You know that, right?”

Emily’s face brightened, and she placed a hand over her chest. She positively glowed. “Really?”

Nodding, Nigel folded up Andy’s CV and tucked it into his coat pocket. “Without a doubt. I’m utterly terrified of you right now.”

“Oh, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week!”

 

* * *

 

The apartment door slammed shut. Andy leaned back against it. Nate wasn’t home yet. He wouldn’t be home until late, until the restaurant closed. Drops of rain-water shivered at her jawline, and her clothes stuck to her. In spite of the torrential rain outside, she felt too warm from the sprint across town back to her Brooklyn apartment. The grubby carpet darkened from where she dripped. She had to peel her jacket off; the sleeves clung to the layers beneath. When she hung the jacket up, she fished both the picture and her phone from her coat pockets.

Water had curled the edges of the photo, but Andy’s young reflection still gazed at her from the printed page. For a long while Andy paced the loft apartment, moving seamlessly between the open-planned kitchen and living room, biting at the fingers of one hand until they were raw. She didn’t stop until blood welled up from one fingernail, and then she wiped her fingers on her dark-washed slacks.

Unlocking her phone, Andy dialed a number.

On the third ring, her mother answered. “Hey, honey! How are your fishing expeditions going? Any bites, yet?”

“What?” Andy’s face screwed up in confusion until she realised her mother was talking about job interviews. “Oh. No. Nothing yet. I think.”

“Well, don’t get disheartened. You’re a catch for any company. Though, you really should take up my offer to practice some interview questions with -”

“Mom,” Andy interrupted before her mother could gain too much momentum. “I need you to answer a question for me, and I need you to be honest.”

There followed a moment of silence, after which came Elizabeth’s puzzled response, “Sure. What is it?”

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Andy blurted out, “Do you and dad know anything about who I was before you adopted me as a kid?”

“No,” her mom answered, adamant. “If we did, we would’ve told you. You know that.”

“Are you sure?” Andy pressed. She continued to pace. Back and forth. Her socks squished wetly in her shoes. “I mean - are you really really sure?”

“Andy, what’s this about?”

“I just -!” Andy had to lower the phone and close her eyes for a second before she could speak again. “I've met some people,” she began again, not knowing exactly how to frame this whole mess. “They think I'm -”

She stopped. Froze, really. The words jammed up in her throat like leaves clogging up the gutters.

“Honey?” Andy's mom prompted, sounding concerned. “Are you still there?”

“Sorry.” Andy ran a hand through her hair. “They think they can find out who I am. I mean, who I _was._ They're - They're trying to reconnect families who were torn apart by the civil war or coup or -”

“Oh,” Elizabeth breathed down the end of the line. She sounded winded, and Andy could just imagine the stunned look on her face before she could compose herself. “And you - you want to -?”

“I don’t know,” Andy said.

“Well, of course your father and I will support any decision you make. We’ve never wanted to hold any of that information back. Everything we know, you know.” her mother rushed to say.

Somehow, this conversation didn’t help unknot the tangled mess of Andy’s stomach like she had hoped. If anything, her gut seemed to writhe the more her mother spoke. The feeling wound its way up Andy’s chest, constricting her throat. Her footsteps quickened, on the verge of panicky.

“And you -?” Andy bit her lip. “You never hid anything from me when I was a kid?”

“No! No, we -! Well, I mean, we didn’t tell you about the civil war thing until you were an appropriate age. But that was it! I swear! There was no record of you before they found you at that train station, half dead and -! Ask your father, if you don’t believe me.”

Andy’s steps slowed, but did not fully stop. With a sigh, she tossed the photo on the tiny dining table, and covered her eyes with a shaking hand. The sound rasped in the phone receiver. “I believe you,” she said.

“These people,” Andy’s mother suddenly turned suspicious. “They’re legitimate, whoever they are?”

“I think so.”

“You _‘think so’?”_ her mother repeated, incredulous.

“I’ll find out,” Andy said more firmly this time. “I’ll - I’ll do some research before I jump ship or anything. I’m not stupid, mom.”

Her mother’s voice softened. “I know. I would never say you were. I just don’t want you getting hurt.”

“I won’t.”

“Well, you ring me up in the middle of the day in an absolute spell. It’s worrying. I’m worried. Whatever these people said or did has you rattled.”

Andy opened her mouth to deny it, but before she could say anything there came a sharp knock at her front door. She nearly jumped out of her skin and fumbled with her phone. “Jesus!”

“Andy?”

She crossed the room, walking towards the door. “It’s nothing, mom. I just -” Andy’s voice trailed off when she checked through the peephole. “I have to go. I’ll call you back, alright?”

“Wait a second -! Can we -?”

Andy didn’t wait. She pressed the red button on her phone screen, ending the call. Steeling herself, Andy unlocked the door and opened it.

On the other side, Nigel was shaking the rain from his umbrella. “Long time no see.”

Andy glared. “How do you know where I live?”

“Ah. Yes. About that.” Holding up one hand, he bent down to pick up Andy’s briefcase from where it had been set upon the floor. He handed it out to her. “You left this behind.”

Frowning in suspicion between him and the briefcase, Andy nonetheless slipped her phone into her back pocket in order to grab the bag. “Thanks,” she grumbled, begrudging.

“May I come in?” Nigel gestured towards her apartment beyond.

In answer, Andy blocked the door with her body, hand firmly on the door.

“Alright,” Nigel said slowly, drawing the word out. “I guess I deserve that.”

Andy nodded. “Yup.”

“Just hear me out -”

“So, are you stalking me, now? Is that what this is?” Andy interrupted. “Because I’ll just call the police.”

Nigel swept a hand over his breast and said very solemnly, “No stalking. I promise. If you let me say my piece, I’ll leave you alone forever. You won’t hear from me or my colleagues again, unless you wish it.”

Andy narrowed her eyes at him. He was shorter than she was, though not by much. And she knew that height could be deceptive. Nate was his height, and he could lift her up and playfully toss her around without breaking a sweat. Running her thumb along the handle of her hand-me-down briefcase, Andy relented. “Fine. Go on, then.”

As if he’d rehearsed in the cab ride on the way over -- and he probably had -- Nigel launched into his pitch. “Genovia is in the hands of traitors, who overthrew the government. It’s a constitutional monarchy and for over a decade, the new King has stripped the other governmental branches of power, and now there is none strong enough to oppose him.”

Andy tossed her briefcase to the side, so that it clunked to the floor of her apartment. “Sounds a lot like someone else’s problem. Why doesn’t another European power just step in?”

His eyebrows rose over the rims of his round glasses. “This isn’t the Balkans or the Ukraine. Genovia is too close to the central powers, both geographically and culturally. Perhaps you remember from your history books what happened the last time the central European powers went to war?”

Andy did not answer, but she didn’t need to. Her grimace spoke for her. 1945. World War II. Yeah ok, bad example.

Nigel let her off the hook, and said, “On her own, Clarisse cannot press a claim to the throne. Genovian succession follows the custom of absolute cognatic primogeniture.”

Andy scrunched up her nose. “Absolute who what now?”

“First born child gets the throne regardless of gender,” Nigel explained.

“Huh.” Andy shrugged. “Alright.”

“If there is any hope of saving the country from a total dictatorship, the Queen Mother must have the Princess Amelia by her side.”

“Principality,” Andy corrected, adding. “You know, since we’re splitting hairs.” She was being snide and she knew it, but in her defence she’d also had a pretty shit morning.

“Yeah, I deserved that, too.” Rubbing his eyes, Nigel took a deep breath before continuing. “In less than a year, there’s to be a sort of party -- if you will -- in Paris, where we were hoping to present you as Princess Amelia to Queen Clarisse and the press.” From his coat pocket, he pulled out a cream-coloured business card, and held it towards her between two fingers. “You have time to think about it.”

For a moment, Andy did nothing. Slowly, she reached out and took the card, careful not to touch him in any way. The moment she did so, Nigel nodded politely, turned, and left without another word. Andy listened to his footsteps descend the rickety stairs, then the door opening two stories down as he stepped out onto the rain-lashed street. Only then did she retreat into the safety of her apartment once more. When the door clicked softly shut behind her, she released a breath she hadn’t realised she had been holding. The words _‘Nigel Kipling - Fashion Art Director - correspondent couturier’_ were printed in a simple glossy grey script across the business card. Andy studied it the way one might study a snake curled atop her kitchen counter. Then, she pulled out her cellphone.

Two missed calls from her mom and one from her dad. She pulled up the text notifications, and flicked a quick reply to her mother’s insistent proding -- something to put her at ease until Andy could figure out exactly where she stood. Tapping her contacts list, Andy scrolled down and hit a name. She held the phone to her ear and listened to the ringing before a familiar voice answered. “That took a while!”

“Hey, Lily,” Andy greeted, unable to summon even the façade of cheer.

“Uh-oh, I know that tone. Did the interview not go well?”

“You could say that,” Andy sighed. She balanced the phone between her shoulder and cheek in order to free her hands. With brisk movements, she tore up Nigel’s business card and tossed the pieces onto the kitchen countertop. “You and Doug free later? I desperately need a drink.”

“You bet. Meet you at Nate’s work at eight?”

“Yeah. Sounds good. See you then.”

After waiting for Lily’s goodbye, Andy hung up. She walked past the screen separating the kitchen from the bedroom, and promptly flopped atop the bed. The cheap mattress squeaked beneath her as she bounced. Her cat, who had been restfully curled up on her pillow, gave a startled meow.

“Sorry, Fat Louie,” Andy groaned.

As she stared up at the cracked paint along the ceiling, Fat Louie padded across the sheets and settled atop her chest. He tucked his paws beneath his body and blinked at her. Andy scratched behind his ears. “I bet you never worried about who your parents were, or your pedigree, or whatever. You’re from the pound.”

He purred and butted his head against her hand.

“Yeah, you and me both.”

 

* * *

 

By the time Andy arrived at Nate’s work, Lily and Doug had already poured her a glass of wine. It was still raining outside. The New York streets had been transformed into rivers, and Andy’s mad dash from the nearest subway had still resulted in her dripping all over the restaurant’s white-tiled floors. She shucked her coat and tossed it over the back of her chair, where it landed with a faint splat.

“Oh, thank God,” Andy groaned as she sank into the chair and pulled another bottle of cheap red from her bag, placing it on the table along with the three others already clustered there. “And thank God for BYOB restaurants.”

“Damn, you really did have a bad day,” Lily said.

Andy was already picking up the glass poured for her and taking a sip. “You have no idea.”

“Well, we’ve ordered two servings of fries. Nate will be bringing them out soon,” Doug reassured her with a pat on her arm, after which he pretended to shake drops of water from his hands.

“Bless you.”

“So!” Lily leaned forward on her elbows, eyes sparkling, her own glass of wine in one hand. “Spill. What happened.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Andy mumbled, her voice echoing into the bowl of her wine glass.

“I don’t know about that,” Doug said. “Did you hear about Lily’s latest patron fiasco?”

Lily rounded on him with fire in her eyes. “We are _not_ talking about that tonight!”

Holding up his hands as if in surrender, Doug replied, “As you wish.”

Lily smacked his shoulder in a playful manner. Meanwhile Andy tried to smile at them, but the strain must have shown, because Lily gave her a funny look. “Ok, seriously, what happened, Andy?”

Trying and failing to wipe the pained expression from her face, Andy said, “Nothing!”

Both Lily and Doug raised their eyebrows and exchanged incredulous glances.

“Don’t!” Andy warned, pointing her finger around the glass. “Don’t you dare team up on me! It’s not fair!”

Their incredulous faces turned into a set of puppy dog eyes even more irresistible than Nate’s. Andy pretended she couldn’t see them, shielding her face with her free hand. “Nope! It won’t work on me this time, villains!”

Just at that moment, Nate emerged from the kitchens, bearing a platter piled high with fries. He still wore his chef’s outfit, immaculate but for the patches of grime along his sleeves from a day’s work over a hot stove.

“Thank God you’re here,” Andy said. “Save me.”

He placed the fries in the middle of the table, gauging the group atmosphere with a grin before heading back to the kitchens. “No can do. My shift isn’t over for another hour. Good luck!”

He waved a hand over his shoulder, and Andy squawked indignantly at his retreating back. Finally, with a resigned sigh, she turned back to Lily and Doug, who were watching her, leaning forward, expectant. Sighing, Andy relented.

“Alright,” she said, digging around in her jacket pocket. “But you can’t tell anyone! Especially not my parents.”

“Cross my heart!” Doug swore.

Lily rolled her eyes at him. “Lord, you are twelve for life. How are we still friends?”

“Because I’m the only one who will listen to you rant about enameling techniques for three hours straight?”

“Hey!” Andy said from the side, gesturing to herself with one hand, and digging through her other pocket when she couldn’t find what she was looking for.

“And her too,” Doug conceded.

Bristling, Lily held up a finger. “Do not get me started on the finer points of _cloisonné_ , I swear to god, Doug.”

He groaned as if in pain, and took a hearty swig of wine. “My kingdom to never hear about whatever the fuck that is ever again.”

Andy pulled out the picture Miranda had given to her, and slid it across the table towards them without a word. Immediately, they stopped, leaning forward to see what it was. Lily snorted, “What? Did your mom post another embarrassing childhood picture of you on social media again? How is this news?”

“Oh, my god,” Doug gasped in faux amazement. “They found it. Your potential employers. They looked you up on social media, and found your baby pictures, and brought them into the meeting just to embarrass you. I always knew this day would come.”

Shaking her head, Andy raised her wine glass to her mouth for another sip. “Guess again!”

With puzzled frowns, they both studied the photo more closely. Lily picked it up and turned it over, while Doug ducked his head to get a better look at the front. “You have a doppelgänger!” Doug announced.

Andy started to say ‘no’ but stopped, mulling over the idea. “Warmer?” she admitted.

Lily hummed a contemplative note, placing the picture back on the table. “Long lost twin?”

“Colder,” Andy said with a snort of amusement.

“Ok, I’m stumped.” Reaching for a fry, Doug began to eat. “Just tell us.”

Andy opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She cleared her throat, took another drink of wine, topped up her glass, and as the wine was pouring into the bowl, she said, “It’s me. Or -- they think it’s me? It’s probably me. We don’t know. _Yet.”_

“Yeah, you lost me.” Lily leaned back in her seat with a shrug in Doug’s direction.

Taking a deep breath, Andy contemplated the moment before her. She could tell them, or she could lie, laugh it off, let it wash across her and forget that this conundrum ever existed. They were watching her. They were waiting. Their expressions were curious and open and willing to believe anything she told them. And in the end, she couldn’t bring herself to lie. “It wasn’t a job interview,” she said at last, sounding breathless to her own ears. “I went to wrong place. Or that lady at Elias-Clarke’s HR sent me to the wrong place -?”

Doug’s eyes went wide. “Elias-Clarke -?” he choked. “Did you seriously interview there?”

“Not an interview!” Andy reiterated. “They weren’t even expecting me, I think. It was - It was a mistake. I just walked in, thinking it was an assistant’s job, and all the while they were looking for some -”

When Andy cut herself off and went quiet, Lily waved her hand as if to coax the words from her. “Some -? Someone -?”

“They think I’m a Genovian princess!” Andy blurted out.

The words hung in the air like a still wind. Andy fidgeted, while Lily and Doug frowned at her in varying degrees of confusion. “A princess,” Lily said in a flat tone.

Andy nodded.

“So, they think you’re the long lost Princess Amelia Renaldi?” Doug supplied.

Andy blinked at him. “How the hell does everyone know about this princess?”

“How the hell do you not?” Doug countered. “It’s your country!”

Andy glared at him. “I’m American.”

“Yeah, ok. Technically. Maybe,” Doug conceded.

“There’s no ‘technically’ about it!” Andy snapped. “I was raised in America. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been American! I wouldn’t know what to do if I was suddenly air-dropped into Genovia!”

“Ok, but -” Doug said, and he put his elbow on the table, fixing Andy with an incredulous smile, “They really think you’re Princess Amelia? Lost Heir to Genovia?”

With a self-conscious shrug, Andy said, “Yeah? That’s basically it.”

They stared at her.

Flinging up her free hand, Andy buried her nose in the wine glass, “Listen! You asked!”

“No way,” Doug breathed, his lips quirking up into a full-blown grin. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish,” Andy mumbled, taking a sip.

Lily straightened until she sat very primly, nose in the air, and she said, “Douglas, we’re in the presence of royalty. No elbows on the table.”

Immediately, he did the same. “Oh, very poor form. Very poor of me, indeed.”

“Guys,” Andy growled.

“My deepest apologies, Your Majesty,” Lily pretended to bow.

“Actually,” Doug said, “It’s ‘Your Highness’”  

“Well, la dee da!” Lily drawled.

“Can we just -!” Andy set down her glass to rub at her eyes with both hands. _“-not?_ Thanks?”

With a snort of amusement, Lily let her off the hook. “Alright, alright. Who are these people, anyway? And why were they looking for some princess?”

“Do you need a reason to look for a princess?” Doug asked. “No, seriously. I’m asking for a friend.”

Lily did not look at him as she held up a hand in his direction and said, “Zip it.”

Sighing, Andy shook her head, pulling her hands away from her face. “I looked them up. The guy is just some fashion lackey, but Google tells me I’m supposed to be super impressed by the woman. Miranda Priestly?” Andy waved a hand. “Apparently she’s some hot-shot from England.”

At the mention of Miranda’s name, Doug sucked in a sharp breath, and his eyes went huge. “Shut. _Up._ Miranda Priestly? You met Dame Miranda Priestly?”

Andy eyed him with a wary frown. “Yes?”

“In person?”

“No, Doug. I met her on an internet forum.” Andy rolled her eyes. “Of course, I met her in person. And she was a Grade A bitch, too.”

Lily interrupted before Doug could retort, “I think the real question is how the hell do _you_ know about her?”

Doug straightened his shoulders. “She’s a fashion magnate. A captain of industry. She was a Grand Maître de la garde-robe.” When Lily and Andy only stared at him, their expressions blank, Doug bristled. “A great officer of a royal house, you philistines! She was knighted for her work! She used to create masterpieces for only the highest society! Fashion designers have lived and died by her word alone! Am I the only one here who doesn’t live under a rock?”

In outrage, Lily jabbed a finger against his shoulder. “You can’t call me a philistine! I’m literally the only artist at this table!”

“Well, that certainly explains why she was so full of herself,” Andy grumbled.

“Yeah, but what it doesn’t explain is why they were looking for a princess. Unless they want to dress you up. Which, but the way,” Lily looked like she was trying hard not to laugh, “do we get to see that? I will pay real cash money to see you hobble around New York in stilettos.”

With a glare, Andy replied, “Oh, ha ha. They’re not going to dress me up. I don’t even know if I’m going to agree to their crazy plan. They want to train me up and whisk me off to Europe for a fancy party. God. What a mess.”

Andy thought about coups and civil wars and illegitimate kings, deposed Queens, dead princesses -- well. _Presumed_ dead princesses. She thought of tyrants and dictators and politics, and all the things she had ever wanted to write about. She thought of lost memories and personal history and recurring dreams. Perhaps, she thought, there may be something in this for her after all.

Suddenly serious, Lily caught Andy’s eye. “Are they legit?”

Before Andy could answer, Doug interjected, “Did you not just listen to a word I said? If Miranda Priestly told me I was a princess, I would probably believe her.”

“We already know you’re a princess,” Lily shot back. “But this whole thing sounds shady. I’m not convinced.”

Andy chewed at her lower lip and did not answer. Seeing her torn expression, Lily’s own face softened. “Look, I’m not saying you should go running off to Europe or whatever, but I know you.” She even waggled a finger from across the table. “I know you love us and your parents and all that jazz, and I also know you’ve always been curious about your past. Who knows? Maybe these crazy fashionistas can help you find out more about yourself.”

“So,” Andy said slowly, tracing the rim of her wine glass. “You think I should play along and see what kind of information I can get out of it?”

At that, Lily pretended to wipe her palms clean. “That choice is up to you. Last I checked, you wore big girl pants.”

“For the last time,” Doug gave a woe-befallen sigh, “Levis do not count as big girl pants.”

Grabbing a fry from the basket, Lily chucked it at him. “Nobody in their right mind would shop at Armani for a pair of jeans!”

“I do!”

“I rest my case.”

“Hey! Stop! No, don’t waste good french fries! I paid for those!”

“If you can afford Armani, you can afford a few Idaho potatoes!”

Andy watched her friends’ playful bickering with a small smile. Her glass was nearly empty, but instead of pouring herself another, she grabbed a few fries. She was still chewing when Nate emerged from the kitchen, looking exhausted as he pulled the apron over his head.

“Hey,” Nate greeted her with a soft peck to the cheek, then sank into the chair beside her. He glanced at her glass, and grabbed one of the open bottles, “More wine?”

“Please.” Andy nudged her glass across the table.

As he began to pour, he asked the table at large, “So! What’d I miss?”

 

* * *

 

That night, Andy had the falling dream again. Always it was the same, with slight variations here and there. Sometimes she would lean against a wall, only to sink right through the floor. Other times she would be walking along in a high-ceilinged room cluttered with children’s toys, and one step on the carpet by the miniature ship would plunge her into darkness. Or she would be in another dream, and that carpet and miniature toy ship would appear at random. Those were the only two things that remained constant, and even dream Andy knew that stepping on that silk carpet would mean falling, and then jarring back into wakefulness once more.

Tonight was no different. She’d been trying to tap her father’s shoulder to get his attention, but every time she reached, he seemed to grow taller and taller. He didn’t have a face, but she knew it was him. In a fit of frustration, she looked for a chair or something she could use to gain even a few inches to reach him, and there across the room was an old rocking chair atop the carpet and beside the miniature ship.

She stepped onto the carpet, and fell right through the floor and back into her own body.

With a jolt and a gasp, Andy jerked awake. She could have sworn the whole bed shuddered beneath her, but Nate merely rolled over beside her. He didn’t wake up. Catching her breath, Andy lay there a moment longer, before sliding from beneath the duvet, careful not to wake him.

She showered. Got dressed in a pair of jeans, an old band t-shirt, and a Northwestern University sweater. Around her neck, Andy wore the ring on a chain that she wore everyday. She trudged into the kitchen. A yawn pulled at her mouth as she brewed a pot of coffee.

A few minutes later, she was muzzily sipping at a steaming mug of coffee and toying with the chain around her neck. Not for the first time, she tugged at the chain in order to study the ring, the only thing that remained from that day she was found wandering a train station on the Mediterranean coast, the only thing connecting her to her past. It was a heavy gold signet ring, with an oval surface so effaced she could hardly make out the chevron and fleurs-de-lys. All along the band was engraved the Latin inscription: ‘ _totum corpus laborat.’_

With a sigh, she slipped the ring back beneath her sweater. Andy started to pour another cup of coffee for Nate in order to bring it to him in bed, but went still. The tattered remains of Nigel’s business card were still on the kitchen countertop. As she cradled her mug of coffee in one hand, she pushed the torn up pieces of cardstock around like a jigsaw puzzle, slowly putting it back together again until Nigel’s name, title, and contact details were clearly visible.

Andy took another swig of her coffee. The ring around her neck seemed to pull her down like a lodestone, down, down through the worn wooden floorboards. She chewed at her lower lip. She swore under her breath, and then she snatched up her cellphone.

 

* * *

 

The windows were smeared and impenetrable with rain. Inside however, the studio bloomed with warmth. Underfloor heating made the polished concrete floors warm to the touch, as if the sun had been shining on them all day. The broad open space was stretched with glass and steel, a cathedral of creation settled in the heart of Manhattan, softened by the presence of fresh flowers in their cut-crystal vases: pale-throated orchids, white roses and fragrant lilies. Along one wall hung on display were Miranda’s many creations on racks and stashed in open cubbies. All the other walls of Miranda’s personal atelier were clustered with a variety of mirrors and picture frames, no inch left unadorned, in what Nigel had always thought to be an elegant sort of _horror vacui_.

Behind a smoke-tinted glass partition, Miranda herself worked. She moved like shadow, like a living silhouette. Some days, when the night grew long and the lamps burned low, when she and Nigel seemed the only people still awake in the world, Miranda would step from her high-heeled shoes and walk, barefoot, across the warm concrete floors. Today was not one such day.

Every step was clipped. She gouged the line she walked. As Miranda rounded a corner, a pair of scissors still hanging from her fingers, she peered at Nigel over the top of her glasses. “Are you just going to dawdle over your phone all day? Or are you actually going to contribute something worthwhile?”

In answer, Nigel pocketed his phone, but did not stop pacing in front of the uncomfortable white couches that nobody actually ever sat on. “You just want me to get started on the beading, don’t you?”

“Was that even in question?” Despite Miranda’s snotty tone, she did not vanish behind her smokescreen once more. Normally if she were absorbed in work, she wouldn’t even lift her head unless it was to approve something Nigel was working on beside her. Now however, she dangled the wickedly sharp shears from her fingertips and watched Nigel with an expression, hooded and veiled.

“You’re worried,” she announced eventually.

Nigel toyed with the seam of his pocket rather than dig out his phone and glance at it again. It was no use, anyway. There would be no message there. Not one that he wanted to see, in any case. “No,” he lied, avoiding Miranda’s incredulous look. “She’ll come. You’ll see.”

A flash of lightning illuminated the windows, casting the studio in a brief and ghostly light. It gilded Miranda all in pale silver, and then it was gone, but her eyes remained fixed on Nigel across the room. She never flinched.  

“She won’t,” Miranda said to the rumble of distant thunder. “What will you tell Clarisse, then? Hmm?”

“I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it.”

Something very like a smile twitched at the corner of Miranda’s mouth, but it vanished almost immediately, and she was back to her flinty self once more. “Take it from me, Nigel: people in our position can hardly afford to be bridgeburners and expect to live unscathed.”

“She’ll come,” Nigel repeated, as if saying it again would make it any more true.

Bored with his near-pious litany, Miranda rolled her eyes. “She’s not the kind to come crawling back. I can tell.”

“You always were a poor judge of character,” Nigel said.

“That explains you, then,” Miranda countered in a cool voice.

Unperturbed by the iciness that would have had most sane people running for the hills, Nigel scoffed, “Oh, please. You saw her for all of two minutes.”

She sniffed. “Two minutes is all I need.”

Nigel did everything he could to school his features. Laughing in Miranda’s face never ended well. Despite his best efforts his facial expression must have changed, because Miranda glared at him. “Don’t be vulgar,” she snapped.

“Perish the thought,” he replied in as smooth a voice as he could muster.

Miranda’s dark look was ruined by the pink tinge to her cheeks. With a huff, she retreated behind her glass screen. The moment she did so, Nigel allowed himself a soft chuckle and a shake of his head. His hand strayed to his pocket, to the phone hidden there. Forcing his arm back to his side, Nigel squared his shoulders and went to join Miranda behind the screen.

“Alright,” he relented. “Where am I starting?”

Without looking up from her work, carefully cutting out lines in fabric so that they matched the paper panels she had drawn earlier, Miranda said, “No florals. It’s spring, and if I see one more floral design I will stab someone with my shoe.”

Nigel grunted a soft note of agreement. “Did you see that Elie Saab line a few weeks ago?” he asked, already pulling out a few long sheets of transfer paper and flaring them out on the table next to hers.

“God,” Miranda said with a derisive snort. Her shears parted the red fabric like a prow through the sea. “I thought it was in the purview of artists to have even a whiff of originality, but apparently that is beyond people’s capabilities.”

The door to the studio opened without a knock, which could only mean it was Emily. Neither Nigel nor Miranda paid her much attention as she entered the room beyond, her darkly-clad figure blurred through the glass. They did not pause their work even when she announced, “You have a visitor.”

“Tell them to put the _plissé_ on the corner table and go,” Miranda said.

“Not that kind of visitor,” came Emily’s bland reply.

At that, Miranda and Nigel looked at one another, Miranda sharply, and Nigel with surprise.

“My my,” Miranda murmured. “It seems I may be eating crow tonight.”

Nigel walked round the partition to find Emily urging Andy Sachs into the room behind her with an impatient gesture of her hand. Andy looked much as she had before, except this time sporting a lumpy sweater and skirt ensemble beneath the same rain jacket. Her dark hair was plastered to her face, and the jacket was heavy with rain. Nigel had never been so relieved to see a walking fashion disaster in his whole life.

He heard Miranda’s heels click as she drew up beside him. Her expression was far less appeased than his own, though she didn’t -- as far as Nigel could tell -- look angry. Over twelve years he’d worked with Miranda Priestly, and sometimes he still couldn’t read her to save his own skin.

“That’s all.” Miranda waved Emily away before taking a step towards Andy. The girl cast a fleeting look over her shoulder after Emily, who had abandoned her to Miranda’s mercy without a second’s hesitation. When Miranda drew too close, her steps a familiar prowl, Nigel could see Andy lean away as if afraid to be touched. In the end however, Miranda merely cocked her head and pursed her lips in distaste. “Have you never heard of an umbrella?”

“I have, but it’s too windy,” Andy grumbled, and something very much like a glare flashed in her eyes.

So, the ingénue had teeth after all. Nigel hid a grin. Meanwhile, Miranda frowned.

Stepping forward, Nigel asked, “I assume you’ve thought over what I said?”

Andy drew a deep breath, then nodded. “Yes.”

When Miranda and Nigel simply waited for her answer, Andy swallowed, drew herself taller, and said, “Listen, you need a girl who looks just like me, and I need a job, and you know what? Who’s to say I’m not the long lost Princess Alexandra -!”

“Amelia,” Nigel corrected her.

“Right. I knew that.” Andy said. “Anyway, this Queen Mother Lady Whoever will be able to tell if I’m the real deal or not, so if we meet her and she decides it’s all been a huge mistake, then no harm no foul.”

A sneer pulled at Miranda’s upper lip. “This is not a matter to be taken lightly. If you’re going to do this, then I expect commitment. You’ll not breathe in an ignoble manner, or they will sniff you out.”

Unlike at their previous meeting, Andy did not quail. Her spine stiffened and she said, “If you’re so convinced I’m Princess Amelia, then it shouldn’t matter how I act or dress.”

Miranda opened her mouth to retort with some snide remark, but Andy continued speaking. Miranda blinked in surprise at the interruption, then narrowed her eyes.

“If,” Andy said slowly, holding up a finger, “If I'm not the princess however, then I want you to use your connections or network or whatever to help me find out what happened to my birth family. That’s my condition. Take it or leave it.”

Nigel caught Miranda’s eye. They exchanged a look, a brief raising of eyebrows and tilting of heads, before Miranda conceded with a shrug and a reluctant nod.

Andy’s face split into a wide grin. “Great!” Beaming, she stepped forward to hold out her hand. “Pleased to be on board.”

While Miranda ignored Andy’s outstretched hand with a raised eyebrow, Nigel moved to clasp it. Rather than shake it however, he turned Andy’s wrist over to get a good look at what he was dealing with. She squirmed as if half-afraid he would bow and kiss the back of her hand. Instead, he simply told her, “First thing’s first: we're going to have to see about getting you a manicure. And -- ow. Loosen your grip.”

“Sorry.” With an apologetic grimace, Andy withdrew her hand. For a moment, she floundered, then clutched the hem of her skirt. “Do I -? Uh -?” She attempted a fumbling curtsy.

“Oh, dear god,” Miranda muttered, glancing heavenward as if praying for the strength to endure a trial by fire.

Andy straightened immediately, her cheeks burning. Nigel, meanwhile, sighed. He removed his glasses and fished in his waistcoat pocket for a cloth. As he wiped down the round lenses, he said, “We have a lot of work to do.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1) The chapter title is a reference to Jules Verne’s novel ‘In Search of the Castaways’: “If there were no thunder, men would have little fear of lightning.”
> 
> 2) ‘Totum corpus laborat’ is the Genovian state motto, meaning “the whole body works/suffers”


End file.
